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chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there was something odd

about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so disturbed when

he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called? By George! He

remembered now. There was something strange about the whole thing.

 

He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one leg

on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great rate.

 

And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be, by

George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why,

even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and

Hurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they would

try to deceive him.

 

His thoughts burst into words.

 

"She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed, and gone

out this morning and never said a word."

 

He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still

frowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was

now looking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap,

beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almost

forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his

hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing.

 

"Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined.

 

"I'm not mad," he answered.

 

"I thought you were," she said, smiling.

 

"Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way. "Were you

serious?"

 

"Certainly," she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not

intentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times. I

thought you knew."

 

The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulate

indifference further.

 

"Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked.

 

"Sometimes. Sometimes they went out."

 

"In the evening?"

 

"Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though."

 

"I'm not," he said. "Did any one else see him?"

 

"Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in

particular.

 

"How long ago was this?"

 

"Just before you came back."

 

The drummer pinched his lip nervously.

 

"Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a

gentle squeeze.

 

"Certainly not," she returned. "I wouldn't worry over it."

 

"All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and yet

not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most excellent

impression upon the chambermaid.

 

"I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately, feeling

that he had been unduly wronged. "I'll find out, b'George, whether

she'll act that way or not."

 

 

Chapter XXI

THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT--THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

 

When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His blood

was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who

had stirred him so profoundly the night before.

 

"Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and

an elation which was tragic in itself.

 

"Yes," said Carrie.

 

They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood

drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt

was like music to him.

 

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the night

before.

 

"Are you?"

 

He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.

 

"It was wonderful."

 

Carrie laughed ecstatically.

 

"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he added.

 

He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening

before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.

 

Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her.

Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his

drawing toward her in every sound of his voice.

 

"Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a moment or

two. "They were beautiful."

 

"Glad you liked them," he answered, simply.

 

He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being

delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was

ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and

expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and

feeling for a way.

 

"You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tune

modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.

 

"Yes," said Carrie, easily.

 

He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her

with his eye.

 

She felt the flood of feeling.

 

"How about me?" he asked.

 

This confused Carrie considerably, for she realized the floodgates were

open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. "I don't know," she

answered.

 

He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it

go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. He

searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.

 

"Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.

 

"I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and finding

nothing at which to catch.

 

As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a

man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,

sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed

of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen

eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before

her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her

with a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the

glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep

from feeling what he felt.

 

And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did

he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or what?

Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened, and her

eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Drouet

had told him they were not married. There was never anything at all

convincing about what Drouet said.

 

And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of

bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently

sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what he

said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering

vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until she

was on a borderless sea of speculation.

 

"Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange for you

whatever--"

 

"Oh, don't," said Carrie.

 

"Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

 

There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering

why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by a

blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of

marriage.

 

He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in.

He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He

went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely

enlisted in his plan.

 

"Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent

feeling. "You know I can't do without you--you know it-it can't go on

this way--can it?"

 

"I know," said Carrie.

 

"I wouldn't ask if I--I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it.

Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to stay

away from me, do you?"

 

She shook her head as if in deep thought. "Then why not settle the

whole thing, once and for all?"

 

"I don't know," said Carrie.

 

"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be

serious."

 

"I am," said Carrie, softly.

 

"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love

you. Look at last night."

 

His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and

body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a

subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man's

nature was distilling itself.

 

Carrie made no answer.

 

"How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "You

love me, don't you?"

 

He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For

the moment all doubts were cleared away.

 

"Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly.

 

"Well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?"

 

Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.

 

"I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too soon, come

Saturday."

 

"When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her

difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's wife.

 

The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more

difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like

messages to his mind.

 

"Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolor his

present delight with this miserable problem.

 

"Saturday?" asked Carrie.

 

He nodded his head.

 

"Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go."

 

The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so

difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had

gotten to that stage now where it was no longer colored with reason.

He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so

much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its

difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold

truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and

trust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise,

whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it

cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth.

 

Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his

shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. "Well," she said, "I'll try

and get ready then."

 

Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows of

wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more

lovely.

 

"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talk over

the plans."

 

He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the

result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her,

though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began

to realize that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the

world.

 

"To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully

to his brave demeanor.

 

"Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.

 

There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing

herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome

adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they

would be happy.

 

 

Chapter XXII

THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER--FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH

 

The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that

jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs.

Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could

transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical

sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a

social sense he fell short. With his regard died his power to be

attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright

crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the

good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discolored the very hue

of her husband's indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and

phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her presence.

 

As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that

prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of

the married relation on his part served to give her notice of the airy

grace with which he still took the world. She could see from the

scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal

appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every

motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in

Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days.

Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger,

afar off.

 

This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent

nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation he

shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement of

satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently, he

resented her irritating goads. These little rows were really

precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension.

That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds,

would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the

breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration

of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood encountered Jessica in her

dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hurstwood had

already left the house.

 

"I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said,

addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "Now here the

things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten."

 

Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to feel

the fag end of the storm.

 

"I'm not hungry," she answered.

 

"Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,

instead of keeping her waiting all morning?"

 

"She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly.

 

"Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, I

don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such

an air with your mother."

 

"Oh, mamma, don't row,"; answered Jessica. "What's the matter this

morning, anyway?"

 

"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because I

indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I

won't have it."

 

"I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply, stirred

out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defense. "I said I wasn't

hungry. I don't want any breakfast."

 

"Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll

not have it!"

 

Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss of

her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the

independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be

quarreled with.

 

Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a growth of

natures which were largely independent and selfish. George, Jr.,

manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of

his individual rights, and attempted to make all feel that he was a man

with a man's privileges--an assumption which, of all things, is most

groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen.

 

Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it

irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a

world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a lessening

understanding.

 

Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start to

Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was being

made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp temper was

manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority

was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer or a cynical

laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into hardly repressed

passion, and wished himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a

most irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities.

 

For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and

control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display of

temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more

than the feeling that she could do it. She had no special evidence

wherewith to justify herself--the knowledge of something which would

give her both authority and excuse. The latter was all that was

lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in a way, seemed

groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deed was the cold

breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain

of wrath.

 

An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come. Doctor

Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighborhood, met Mrs.

Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and Carrie had

taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east

on the same drive, had recognized Hurstwood, but not before he was

quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie--did not know whether it

was Hurstwood's wife or daughter.

 

"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving, do

you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.

 

"If I see them, I do. Where was I?"

 

"On Washington Boulevard." he answered, expecting her eye to light with

immediate remembrance.

 

She shook her head.

 

"Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband."

 

"I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering her

husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of

young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.

 

"I know I saw your husband," he went on. "I wasn't so sure about you.

Perhaps it was your daughter."

 

"Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that such was

not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had

recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details.

 

"Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air of

acquaintanceship with the matter.

 

"Yes, about two or three."

 

"It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to seem

to attach any importance to the incident.

 

The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter

as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.

 

Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during

the next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted that the

doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most

likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as BUSY to her.

As a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had

refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits, or,

indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnished the

diversion of her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with

people whom he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most

likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others of

whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent, of

late? In the last six weeks he had become strangely irritable--

strangely satisfied to pick up and go out, whether things were right or

wrong in the house. Why?

 

She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her

now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye.

Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old

and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She was fading,

while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. He was

still an interested factor in the merry-makings of the world, while

she--but she did not pursue the thought. She only found the whole

situation bitter, and hated him for it thoroughly.

 

Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did not

seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the atmosphere

of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now

and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by

flashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was merely a

continuation of other things of the same nature.

 

The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood

visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr.

Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing

establishment. They had driven out early, and, as it chanced,

encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had

attended the performance the evening before. A thousand chances the

subject of the performance had never been brought up had Jessica not

been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, who usurped

as much time as possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to

extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short

conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long ones.

It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily that this

interesting intelligence came.

 

"I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most

attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder,

"that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening."

 

"No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he should be

using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to

something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say, "What was

it?" when he added, "I saw your husband."

 

Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of

suspicion.

 

"Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell me much

about it."

 

"Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended.

There was one actress who surprised us all."

 

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

 

"It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to

hear you weren't feeling well."

 

Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after him

open-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled

impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:

 

"Yes, it is too bad."

 

"Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?" the

acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.

 

The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no

opportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think

for herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him

to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her

company not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out

more.

 

"Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next of

Hurstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box.

 

"Yes. You didn't get around."

 

"No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well."

 

"So your husband told me," he answered. "Well, it was really very

enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected."

 

"Were there many there?"

 

"The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a number

of your friends--Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins."

 

"Quite a social gathering."

 

"Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much."

 

Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.

 

"So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I am sick

and cannot come."

 

She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was something

back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.

 

By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a

state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She wanted to know

what this peculiar action of his imported. She was certain there was

more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled

well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. She,

impending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the

eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of

her mouth.

 

On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the

sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had raised

his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings

joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of

Carrie. He could have been genial to all the world, and he bore no

grudge against his wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her

presence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had







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